


Amidst The Groves

by TerminalVelocity



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Heavy Angst, I'm in my feels, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It's not period appropriate but shhhhhhh, Just imagine Hozier playing in the background, M/M, Oops, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerminalVelocity/pseuds/TerminalVelocity
Summary: Edmund stands in a club in SoHo, and remembers
Relationships: Bacchus/Edmund Pevensie
Kudos: 8





	Amidst The Groves

The music is pounding like thunder. Like hooves. Like a heartbeat. It’s an ache in his bones that he can’t ignore. Not this time.

_Thump, Thump_

He remembers running wild and barefoot and free across rolling green hills that had never known glass or nail or rifle blast nor canon fire. 

_Thump, Thump_

He remembers the heartbeat of the earth echoing behind his ribs, face numb in the firelight, the stars dancing overhead to their own distant music.

_Thump, Thump_

He remembers the coolness of the grass beneath his skin, the welcoming embrace of the forest floor, cradling him in a tender embrace as the wine and the rhythm pounds in his veins. 

_Thump, Thump_

How heavy the chalice was

_Thump, Thump_

How small and youthful his hands, the first time. How sure and steady, the last.

_Thump, Thump_

The taste of new wine, the lingering scent of summer and fruit on his breath.

_Thump, Thump_

Hands. Touching. Seeking. Searching. Roaming.

_Thump, Thump_

It burns. It aches. He closes his eyes and falls back against the wall. His head hits solid brick and he sighs, spine tingling, skin prickling with remembered passion and echoes of the voice he’ll never hear again.

_Thump, Thump_

Eyes. Gazing down into his from above, backlight by firelight and limned in gold. A wine-dark brown, soulful, piercing. _Sensuality and wit, Pan amidst the groves-_

_Thump, Thump_

Bacchus.

_Thump, Thump_

**Bacchus**.

_Thump, Thump_

_**Bacchus**!_

_Thump, Thump_

The floor of the club is shaking under his feet, the roar overhead is as much the music as it is the cheap wine and the cheaper beer, as much remembered artillery shells shrieking past as it is the high-pitched whine of desire too-long thwarted. 

He aches, and there is no cure for the aching. 

He has searched for his Love in the wilderness and the clubs and the battlefields and the streets. He has looked into the eyes of men on many continents and sought release between the sheets of too many discreet hotels to dare to dream of the one he misses above all others. 

And in that pained, heartstricken moment.... he _finally_ understands Susan.

He’ll forget, come the dawn, when he stumbles home to his soldiers’ apartment. He’ll drown the sorrow, the pain, the anguish in another bottle and another pair of arms winding around his waist, and tugging at his dark curls. He’ll sigh his disappointment against another set of lips, and the moan he swallows will not taste like freedom.... just stale wine that has never known the touch of its God.

And when he hits the bottom, finally, surrounded by echoes and the scent of stale cigarettes and gin.... he’ll wonder what it was all for, anyway. Why give them a crown, and a throne, and the responsibility of adulthood and a Kingdom only to rip it away, to throw them back HERE in the middle of a war they were never supposed to be fighting? What was all that bright and shining glory for, if they were sent back to London, and the Blitz, and THIS? 

And he’ll reach for the next bottle, hoping it tastes less like despair and regret, whispering prayers to a God who will not answer.


End file.
